Romance The Maruti Ritz Dairies

[Mohit.Kumar]

This story is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this story are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are over 18 years of age.

Mrs Chaitali Ghosh: A 45-year-old Bengali widow. Her curves are 38-34-42. Dusky complexion, round eyes, dark shoulder length hair, height 5 feet 6 inchi. She’s sexually repressed and desires the company of young men. She works as a receptionist for Vatika Real Estate in Gurgaon. 
 
Aditya: A 19-year-old college student, tall and handsome hunk. He's her secret lover.
 
Aditya's lean, six-foot frame was dbangd carelessly over a concrete bench, muscles relaxed yet coiled beneath his worn Metallica t-shirt. Around him, the air crackled with the restless energy of young men released from lectures, thick with the scent of cheap cigarettes, sweat, and adolescent bravado. Chatter bounced between them – exams, cricket, the unbearable stupidity of Professor Sharma – until Rahul, lobbed the inevitable question into the conversation. "Alright, fuckers," he drawled, flicking ash, "serious question. Tight college chick? Or experienced aunty?"
 
Laughter erupted, crude and knowing. Eyes swiveled to Aditya, the quiet giant. He felt the familiar heat creep up his neck, not from embarrassment, but from the sudden, visceral image that flashed behind his eyelids: dusky skin, the heavy sway of hips beneath a crisp salwar kameez, the sharp, intimate scent of sandalwood soap mingling with something deeper, muskier. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke burning pleasantly in his lungs before he exhaled, a lazy plume dissolving into the golden air. "MILF," he stated, his voice low and surprisingly steady, the word hanging heavy, charged. "Every fucking time."
 
The admission detonated a barrage of lewd commentary. "Aditya wants someone who knows how to ride!" Vikram cackled, slapping his knee. "Bet she teaches you tricks, huh?" Another voice chimed in, cruder: "Yeah, imagine those big tits bouncing while she's on top!" Aditya listened, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. He didn't join the escalating vulgarity, letting their fantasies swirl around him. Inside, though, his pulse hammered against his ribs. Their crude approximations were laughably off-target, mere cartoons compared to the complex, illicit reality – the hushed whispers in the dark, the stifled moans muffled by thin walls, the way Chaitali's round, dark eyes held a desperate, hungry light just for him.
 
He shifted on the bench, the rough concrete pressing into his thigh. The coarse banter washed over him, but his mind was already miles away, transported to the cramped apartment smelling of turmeric and desperation. He pictured her – Chaitali – bent over the reception desk at Vatika Real Estate, the curve of her spine visible beneath thin cotton, the way her saree clung to the generous swell of her hips. His friends' words morphed into echoes of her own breathless gasps, the feel of her soft, yielding flesh beneath his hands, the slick, overwhelming heat that welcomed him. A familiar, urgent ache bloomed low in his gut, sharp and insistent, a physical counterpoint to the fading sunlight.
 
 
 
Inside the sterile, air-conditioned chill of Vatika Real Estate, Chaitali Ghosh flinched as her phone buzzed on the laminate desk. The harsh fluorescent lights glinted off the polished surface, reflecting the weary lines around her dark, round eyes. She’d been mechanically updating client files, the drone of the AC unit a monotonous backdrop to the dull throb behind her temples. Her fingers, adorned only with a simple gold bangle, trembled slightly as she picked up the phone. The WhatsApp notification glowed: Aditya. Her breath hitched, a sudden warmth flooding her cheeks despite the office chill. She tapped the screen.
 
The message wasn't text. It was a photo. Aditya, leaning against the college gate, sunlight catching the sharp angles of his jaw. He wore that cocky smirk, his eyes staring directly into the lens. Below it, the text pulsed: Pick me up NOW. Need u bad. The vulgarity, the raw demand, sent a jolt through her core, sharp and liquid. Her dusky skin flushed deeper, a prickling heat spreading down her neck, pooling low in her belly. She felt a familiar dampness bloom between her thighs, the sudden clench of muscles deep inside, a response that shamed and thrilled her. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, slick with nervous sweat.
 
Chaitali stared at the phone screen until the words blurred. Need u bad. The raw hunger in those syllables echoed the ache coiling tighter within her own body. With trembling fingers, she typed a single, breathless reply: Coming. She hit send, the action feeling illicit, thrilling. Pushing back her chair, the cheap plastic scbanging loudly in the quiet office, she grabbed her purse. Her silk saree suddenly felt too tight across her chest, the fabric clinging to her damp skin. The walk to the office parking felt surreal, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the tiles, each step sending a small tremor through her sensitive core. She could already feel the cool leather of her car’s driver seat, the weight of him beside her, the dangerous promise humming in the air between them. The other receptionist called out a question about a file. Chaitali didn't hear it. Her world had narrowed to the pulse between her legs and the road leading to her lover.
 
The Maruti Ritz's horn bleated twice – sharp, impatient stabs of sound cutting through the humid college air. Aditya's friends froze mid-laugh, heads swiveling toward the dusty white car idling at the curb. Through the windshield, Chaitali's silhouette was tense, knuckles white on the steering wheel, her dark eyes fixed straight ahead with fierce concentration. Aditya stubbed out his cigarette, the smirk widening into something predatory as he pushed off the bench. "That's her," he announced, the casual ownership in his tone making Rahul whistle low and appreciatively.
 
"Damn, Aditya! She drives herself?" Vikram leaned forward, squinting. "Looks proper hot from here. How old is she again?" Aditya paused, the lie smooth and practiced on his tongue. "Forty-two." He let the number hang, savouring the illicit truth beneath it. "Forty-two?" Rahul echoed, incredulous. "Fuck, man. What's she even like? Bet she's got moves." Aditya met their eager stares, the image of his mother’s flushed face gasping against his shoulder flashing behind his eyes. He shrugged, the picture of casual conquest. "Soft," he murmured, the word thick with private meaning. "Everywhere. Especially… here." His hand gestured vaguely, suggestively, toward his own lower belly. A collective groan of envy rippled through the group.
 
Rahul nudged him, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Okay, seriously… pussy. Tight? Or… you know… used?" Aditya felt a familiar, dangerous heat coil in his groin. He pictured Chaitali trembling beneath him, slick and yielding, the impossibly soft, welcoming heat that gripped him like a velvet fist. He forced a lazy grin. "Like warm honey," he breathed, the description stolen directly from her own choked whisper one humid midnight. "Slow. Deep. Takes everything." He saw Vikram swallow hard, eyes glazed. "Fuck, Aditya," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably. "She sounds… unreal."
 
"And the tits?" Vikram pressed, leaning closer, his own adolescent fascination palpable. Aditya’s gaze flickered toward the idling Maruti, catching the tense line of Chaitali’s shoulder through the windshield. He remembered the heavy, dusky weight filling his palms, the way her nipples hardened like pebbles against his tongue, the faint taste of salt and soap. "Heavy," he murmured, his voice roughening despite himself. "Full. Perfect handfuls." He made a subtle, cupping motion with his hands, the memory tightening his own jeans. "They bounce… slow. Like waves." Rahul groaned again, running a hand through his hair. "You lucky bastard."
 
The car horn sounded again, a single, sharp command this time. Aditya pushed off the bench fully, the ache between his legs a throbbing counterpoint to the casual swagger he forced into his stride. "Gotta run," he said, the dismissal clear. As he walked away, Vikram’s final, awed whisper trailed after him: "Does she… you know… swallow?" Aditya didn’t turn back, but the phantom sensation of Chaitali’s warm mouth taking him deep, her choked gasp vibrating against his skin, sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to his core. He quickened his pace, the image burning brighter than the setting sun.
 
He yanked open the passenger door, the familiar scent of sandalwood air freshener and Chaitali’s underlying musk hitting him instantly. She didn’t look at him, knuckles bone-white on the steering wheel, staring rigidly ahead as she pulled away from the curb. The silence was thick, charged. Aditya slid a hand onto her thigh, high up, above the silk of her saree. The muscle there jumped beneath his touch, taut as a wire. He squeezed, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her knee. "You heard them," he stated, his voice low and rough in the confined space. "Asking about you."
 
Chaitali flinched, her breath catching audibly. Her eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, then back to the road. "What... what did you tell them?" she whispered, the tremor in her voice betraying her attempt at composure. Aditya leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. "Told them how soft you are," he murmured, his thumb tracing slow circles high on her inner thigh, inching perilously closer to the damp heat radiating through the thin fabric. "How you feel like warm honey." A small, choked sound escaped her lips. Her grip tightened on the wheel.

[Mohit.Kumar]

Inside the cramped confines of the Maruti Ritz crawling through Gurgaon's gridlocked evening rush, the air hung heavy with the scent of exhaust fumes and Chaitali's perfume. Horns blared a relentless symphony outside their metal cocoon. Aditya sat rigidly in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, the taut line of his neck betraying his turmoil. Chaitali watched him from the corner of her eye, the memory of his friends' stares, the illicit thrill of exposure, coiling low in her belly like a serpent awakening. The traffic light ahead turned red, trapping them in a sea of stationary vehicles. Without a word, her hand slid from the steering wheel, drifting deliberately across the gear shift. Her fingers brushed the rough denim covering his thigh, feeling the muscle beneath jump instantly at her touch. He inhaled sharply, a strangled sound lost in the cacophony outside. Her fingers traced the straining outline beneath the fabric, a slow, deliberate exploration that drew a shuddering gasp from him. The heat radiating through the denim was intense, magnetic.

Her gaze remained fixed on the unmoving traffic, a mask of serene detachment belied only by the flush creeping up her throat and the slight tremor in her hand. She unbuttoned his jeans with practiced ease, the rasp of the zipper unnervingly loud in the confined space. Cool air met heated skin as she freed him, her dusky fingers wrapping around his rigid length. The first stroke was slow, deliberate, her thumb circling the slick head, smearing the bead of moisture already gathered there. Aditya groaned, low and guttural, his head thudding back against the headrest, eyes squeezed shut. Every nerve ending screamed – the rough texture of her calloused fingertip against his sensitive underside, the maddening friction of her palm, the way her thumb pressed just there beneath the crown. His hips bucked involuntarily against her grip, seeking more, deeper.

The scent of him, musky and primal, mingled with jasmine and exhaust fumes. She leaned across the gearshift, her saree rustling softly, her dark hair brushing his straining thigh. Her lips, soft and unexpectedly cool, pressed against the throbbing vein along his shaft. Then her tongue flicked out, a hot, wet point of contact that made his entire body jerk. She took him deeper, her mouth enveloping him with a suction that was both gentle and relentless. Her free hand slid beneath his shirt, blunt nails scbanging lightly over his taut abdomen, feeling the muscles jump beneath her touch. He gasped, a ragged sound torn from his throat, fingers digging into the cheap upholstery. The world outside – the blaring horns, the oppressive heat, the suffocating gridlock – dissolved into a haze. There was only this: the wet heat of her mouth, the rhythmic slide of her lips, the pressure building like a storm surge low in his belly.

Chaitali’s focus was absolute. Her tongue swirled expertly around the swollen head, tasting salt and desperation. She hollowed her cheeks, increasing the suction, feeling him pulse against her palate. A low hum vibrated in her throat, sending shivers up his spine. Her other hand abandoned his stomach, sliding down to cradle his heavy balls, fingers rolling the tightness with practiced pressure. The dual sensations – the engulfing heat of her mouth and the firm, rhythmic kneading below – pushed him towards the edge. He felt sweat bead on his forehead, his breath coming in shallow pants. Her eyes, dark pools reflecting the dashboard lights, flickered up to meet his dazed gaze for a fleeting second, holding a mixture of raw hunger and triumphant possession before returning to her task.

Outside, unnoticed in the stagnant chaos, two figures perched on a Royal Enfield Bullet idled beside the Ritz. Raju, the rider, a wiry man with grease-stained fingernails, nudged his companion, Deepak. "Dekh, saale," he hissed, a lewd grin spreading across his face. Deepak, younger and thicker-set, followed Raju's nod. His eyes widened, then narrowed with voyeuristic glee. They had a clear view through the passenger window, Chaitali’s dark head bobbing rhythmically in Aditya’s lap, her saree slipping further to reveal the smooth curve of her shoulder blade. Raju chuckled, low and dirty. "Buddhiya mast kaam kar rahi hai chhote ke saath," he muttered, shifting slightly on the bike seat for a better angle. Deepak licked his lips, his own arousal stirring as he watched the intimate spectacle unfold mere feet away, separated only by thin glass and exhaust-choked air.

Inside the car, Chaitali felt Aditya’s thighs tense like steel cables beneath her cheek. His groan vibrated through her skull, deep and involuntary. She tasted the sharp salt of his pre-come, felt the thick vein pulsing against her tongue as she took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate his length. The air grew thick with the musk of his arousal mingling with her jasmine and the acrid tang of diesel fumes seeping through the vents. Her own dampness intensified, the thin silk of her petticoat clinging uncomfortably between her thighs. She focused on the rhythm – the wet slide of her lips, the pressure of her tongue tracing the sensitive ridge beneath his crown, the rhythmic squeeze of her fingers around his base. Each pull drew another choked gasp from him, his fingers now tangled painfully in her hair, not guiding, but clinging.

Outside, Raju’s grin widened, revealing stained teeth. He nudged Deepak again, pointing with his chin. "Saali ko dekh, kaise chusti hai," he rasped, his own crotch tightening against the worn leather seat. Deepak leaned forward, mesmerized by the intimate mechanics visible through the glass: the rhythmic bobbing of Chaitali’s head, the glimpse of Aditya’s clenched jaw and fluttering eyelids, the way her saree’s pallu had slipped entirely, revealing the smooth, sweat-sheened skin of her back and the straining clasp of her blouse. Deepak’s hand drifted unconsciously to his own zipper, his breath quickening. The voyeuristic thrill was electric, a forbidden spectacle unfolding inches away in the gridlocked anonymity.

Inside the Ritz, Chaitali felt Aditya’s control shatter. His hips arched violently off the seat, thrusting deeper into the wet heat of her mouth. A guttural cry tore from his throat, raw and primal, drowned by a sudden crescendo of horns outside. She tasted the first thick, salty pulse hit the back of her throat, followed by another, and another, each spasm wracking his body as her lips tightened, swallowing instinctively. His fingers, tangled in her hair, convulsed, pulling sharply before going slack. The scent of his release, sharp and musky, flooded the confined space, mingling irrevocably with exhaust fumes and her perfume. She lingered, drawing out the last tremors with gentle suction, her tongue lapping at the sensitive underside until he whimpered, oversensitive and spent.

Chaitali straightened slowly, wiping her glistening lips with the back of her hand. Her own breath came in shallow gasps, a flush blooming across her dusky neck and chest. She met Aditya’s dazed, half-lidded gaze. A slow, triumphant smile curved her lips – not tender, but fiercely possessive. His seed lingered on her tongue, metallic and intimate. Outside, the traffic lurched forward a meter, tires screeching. She didn’t flinch. Her fingers, slick with his saliva, traced the damp patch staining his jeans before deftly tucking him away, the zipper rasping loud in the sudden quiet between horn blasts. Aditya slumped, boneless, sweat beading his temples, utterly exposed in his vulnerability.

He turned his head towards her, the raw need still burning in his eyes despite the spent exhaustion. Without a word, Chaitali leaned across the gearshift. Her hand tangled in his sweat-damp hair, pulling him roughly towards her. Their lips met – not tentative, but devouring. Hers tasted faintly of him and jasmine, demanding and insistent. His mouth opened under hers, a groan vibrating against her tongue. Her other hand slid beneath his shirt, blunt nails scbanging possessively across the ridges of his abdomen, reigniting sparks where moments before there had been emptiness. The kiss deepened, messy and desperate, tongues sliding hot and wet, teeth grazing lips. She breathed him in – the salt of his skin, the lingering musk of release, the sharp tang of adolescent sweat trapped in the car’s stifling heat. His hands fumbled at her waist, bunching the silk of her saree, seeking skin beneath.

Outside, Raju let out a low whistle, shifting his weight on the Bullet’s seat for an unobstructed view. "Arre wah!" he hissed to Deepak, his grin predatory. "Ab toh chumma-chaati bhi shuru ho gaya!" Deepak’s eyes were glued to the scene inside the Ritz: the woman's dark head tilted back as her young lover kissed her fiercely, her saree slipping further down her shoulder, revealing the straining strap of her blouse and the sweat-slicked hollow of her throat. Deepak’s own breath hitched, a familiar tightness growing in his jeans as he watched Aditya’s hand disappear beneath the folds of blue silk, undoubtedly seeking the curve of Chaitali’s hip. The voyeuristic thrill was potent, a cocktail of disgust and arousal tightening Deepak’s gut. He licked dry lips, imagining the heat of her skin beneath the boy's grasping fingers.

Inside the suffocating car, Chaitali moaned into Aditya’s mouth, the sound muffled but desperate. His tongue plunged deeper, tasting the lingering salt of his own release mixed with her jasmine sweetness. Her fingers raked through his sweat-damp hair, pulling him closer, crushing her breasts against his chest. The kiss broke only when she gasped for air, her lips swollen and glistening. Aditya’s eyes, dark pools of hunger and residual shock, locked onto hers. Without hesitation, his mouth descended again, this time trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down her jawline, nipping at the sensitive skin below her ear before sucking hard at the pulse point on her neck. Chaitali arched against him, a choked cry escaping her as his teeth grazed her neck, the sharp sting mingling deliciously with the scbang of his stubble.

Outside, Raju shifted on the Bullet’s seat, his knuckles white on the handlebars. "Saali ka jism dekh," he breathed, fixated on the exposed slope of Chaitali’s shoulder where her blouse strap had slipped. Deepak’s gaze was riveted lower, where Aditya’s hand had disappeared beneath her saree’s pallu, the fabric bunching rhythmically against the boy’s forearm. They could see the faint outline of Chaitali’s fingers gripping Aditya’s wrist beneath the silk, guiding his touch deeper. Deepak’s own jeans tightened painfully; he could almost feel the imagined heat of her skin, the soft give of her inner thigh beneath Aditya’s questing fingers. Raju chuckled, low and grating. "Chhota toh poori tarah se apne maal ko chaba raha hai."

Inside the car, Chaitali gasped as Aditya’s mouth left her neck, his lips tracing a wet path down her collarbone. His fingers, guided by hers beneath the saree, found the damp silk of her petticoat, then the yielding warmth beneath. She arched off the driver’s seat, pressing herself harder against his invading hand, her own fingers tightening on his wrist, urging him deeper. The thin blouse offered no barrier; his fingertips slid through slick curls, parting swollen folds slick with her arousal. A ragged moan tore from her throat as he found her clit, circling the hardened nub with rough, desperate strokes. Her hips jerked against his hand, seeking friction, the gearshift digging into her side. The scent of her desire – musky, sweet, utterly primal – flooded the car, mingling with his lingering release and the exhaust. Her free hand clutched his hair, pulling his mouth back to hers in a bruising kiss, her tongue plunging into his mouth as if stealing his breath.

Outside, Raju leaned so far forward on the Bullet his helmet nearly tapped the Ritz’s window. "Arre, haath andar tak gaya!" he hissed, eyes wide with leering fascination. Deepak’s knuckles whitened on the bike’s handlebars, his gaze fixed on the rhythmic movement beneath Chaitali’s saree where Aditya’s forearm strained. He could see the faint tremor in the boy’s muscles, the desperate clench of Chaitali’s fingers guiding him. A bead of sweat trickled down Deepak’s temple; the voyeuristic thrill was a physical pressure in his own groin, imagining the wet heat beneath that silk, the frantic pulse of her body against the young man’s hand. Raju shifted his weight, the bike creaking, his own arousal pressing against worn denim. "Saali ki aag dekho," he breathed, captivated by Chaitali’s flushed throat, the sweat glistening in the hollow above her straining blouse.

Inside the car, Chaitali tore her mouth from Aditya’s with a gasp. His fingers plunged deeper inside her, curling against a spot that sent electric shocks radiating up her spine. Her hips bucked wildly against his hand, the gearshift digging painfully into her ribs, forgotten. "Aditya... haan..." she choked out, her voice thick and unrecognizable. His thumb pressed hard against her clit, circling with rough urgency. The friction was exquisite torture, the slick slide of his fingers echoing the wet sounds of their mingled breath. She arched, pressing her forehead against the cool glass of the driver’s window, her vision blurring as sensation overwhelmed her. The scent of her own arousal, musky and potent, mixed with the lingering salt of his release on her tongue and the diesel stench, creating a heady, illicit perfume. Her fingers scrabbled against his wrist, urging him faster, harder, her nails biting into his skin.

Outside, the traffic lurched forward with a groan of engines. Raju cursed, hastily straightening the Bullet as the gap between vehicles narrowed. "Chal, saale!" he barked at Deepak, twisting the throttle. The bike surged ahead half a meter, then stalled abruptly beside the Ritz’s rear window. Deepak’s eyes remained locked inside, catching a final, fragmented glimpse: Chaitali’s face pressed against the glass, mouth open in a silent cry, eyes squeezed shut; Aditya’s forearm muscles corded beneath his sleeve, his hand buried beneath the bunched blue silk of her saree; the frantic rise and fall of Chaitali’s shoulder as she rode his fingers. Deepak felt a jolt of heat flood his own groin, the voyeuristic image seared into his mind – the raw, desperate mechanics of her pleasure laid bare.

Inside the Ritz, the sudden jerk of traffic tore Chaitali’s climax from her. Aditya’s fingers withdrew as she gasped, her body shuddering violently against the driver’s seat, the unfinished peak leaving her trembling and hollow. The blare of horns behind them was insistent, brutal. Aditya snatched his hand back as if burned, the scent of her slick arousal clinging to his fingers. He fumbled frantically with his jeans button, his face flushed crim. Chaitali straightened with a ragged inhale, her saree slipping precariously. Her hands shook as she gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. She didn’t look at him. The car surged forward, tires screeching on asphalt, leaving the phantom heat of his touch and the scent of their mingled desperation trapped within the metal shell.

Outside, Raju revved the Bullet impatiently, its throaty roar cutting through the diesel haze. "Chalo, yaar!" he barked at Deepak, whose eyes remained glued to the Ritz’s passenger window. Deepak caught the final, fragmented tableau: Chaitali’s trembling fingers smoothing her pallu over her sweat-sheened collarbone, the dark smudge of Aditya’s kiss blooming on her neck, the boy wiping his glistening hand on his thigh.

Inside the car, the sudden acceleration pressed Chaitali back into her seat. The lingering wetness between her thighs cooled against the silk petticoat, a stark contrast to the furnace heat still radiating from her core. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale islands against dusky skin. Aditya stared rigidly ahead, the taste of her mouth thick on his tongue, the musk of her arousal still clinging to his fingertips beneath the acrid sting of exhaust.

[Paty@123]

Try to give regular updates plz